


Better Dreams

by Marzipan77



Series: The Ascended Chronicles of an Interfering Archaeologist [2]
Category: NCIS, Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Ascended Daniel Jackson, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzipan77/pseuds/Marzipan77
Summary: Ascended Daniel Jackson has been pulled to the world of NCIS by two mothers' wishes. Oma can't resist a mother's need to care for her children. After tweaking young Tony DiNozzo's future, Daniel meets with a man he has too much in common with in the Mexican desert and shows him a better way.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Sir? The car is here."

Clive looked up from his paperwork and frowned. "What car?"

Wilson stepped further into the office. "Car service? I didn’t know you were traveling, sir."

The butler didn't dare to sound disapproving, but there was definitely a sense of hurt lingering on the man's face. Wilson prided himself in knowing Clive Paddington's schedule inside and out. The man felt it his duty to anticipate each one of his employer's needs, to be ready to supply just what Clive required before he knew it himself.

"I didn't order a –"

Wilson laid an envelope on Clive's desk. "The driver asked me to give this to you, sir."

Lips tight, Clive slit the envelope and removed the single parchment card inside. "She has two days left. No more. Do you want your last words to your only sister to be angry ones?"

His heart beating wildly, sweat broke out on Clive's forehead. "Eleanor," he whispered. He turned the card over, his fingers brushing the thick paper, tracing the hand-written sentences. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but felt, perhaps, he should. An anonymous note, a driver showing up unannounced – Clive should be suspicious, he should take pains to verify everything, send his men to investigate. Call the hospital in New York. Demand his contacts find out who had sent this.

He did none of the above.

Clive knew she was sick. That feckless husband of hers had finally replied to one of Clive's emails last week with the news she was in hospital. But he hadn't realized it was already this bad. He hadn't wanted to know.

Clive swiveled his chair so that he could look out the long windows behind his desk. The back garden was just coming alive in the dim light of the rising sun. Shaded by the house, he traced the edges of the neat pathways, finding them easily in his memory without needing light to see them. He and Ellie had played there as children, chasing butterflies, catching toads in the pond, making up games of knights and damsels, queens and villains, Robin Hood and Queen Mab. Their parents had encouraged them, their mum providing costumes from the remnants found in the attic, dad taking off his jacket and waistcoat and taking up a wooden sword to play the pirate, one hand planted over his eye as a makeshift patch. Ellie had been his best friend. Playmate. Secret keeper. Sometimes, a bratty annoyance, he smiled to himself.

Now his wife's nephews and nieces swarmed the place every time they visited. He and Sylvia had no children of their own, no little pirates and outlaws to batter down their archenemies who were masquerading as tall plants and hedges. Sylvia was delicate, in health and bearing, but with a backbone of forged iron. She'd urged him to pick up the phone, to be the big brother he should have been. She wanted his relationship with Eleanor to be like the one she had with her brothers and sisters. Intimately interconnected, swapping children for weekends and holidays, and vacationing together. His thoughts swept down the years between the days he and Ellie had spent in the garden and today.

They'd grown apart, as brothers and sisters do. Clive was tied up with school and work, taking over the family business. Ellie had had her own interests – music, dancing, decorating – had done well enough at school but didn't love it like he had. She'd focused on friendships, on sports, punting and riding and cricket. Damn good, too, he admitted. 

And then she'd met that American. 

Clive bent the card double in his fist. Anthony DiNozzo, with his perfect teeth and hair, had swept her off her feet in the wake of their parents' tragic deaths. DiNozzo was new, different, and that's what Ellie convinced herself she needed after the car crash, the weeks of bedside vigils in hospital, and the double funeral. Hands clasped, Clive pressed his index fingers to his lips as if to silence the memories of their arguments. How light and relieved she'd looked each time she escaped the black-draped house with the man night after night. How proud she'd been to show off the three-carat ring on her finger. And the excited gleam in her eye when she'd asked Clive to give her away.

He'd been a fool to tell her no.

They'd married and gone to America before Clive could get his head out of his arse. Oh, he'd polished his stiff upper lip and sent a gift, cards at Christmas and a note and gift at the announcement of his nephew's birth. But that closeness, the ability to nearly read each other's minds and finish each other's sentences had gone. She was fine, he'd convinced himself and repeated to Sylvia. Married and happy with her child.

It was Ellie's initiative that had reconnected them. The letters began just before little Tony's birth, with funny anecdotes about being pregnant and stories about fitting in to the American way of life. Gradually, Clive had begun to answer them with letters of his own – or telegrams if he was out of town. He'd sent Tony a stuffed panda from China and a set of play swords and armor from Germany. Ellie had liked that.

Their last argument had taken place during one of their rare telephone calls. She'd sounded breathy and rushed and exhausted, but the sounds of raucous laughter and music and tinkling glassware told Clive that Anthony was throwing one of his parties. A week after Ellie's diagnosis. Clive had been furious, telling her to take herself upstairs and lie down, demanding to speak with her self-centered excuse for a husband.

"It's all right, Clive," she'd sighed. "His business associates expect this sort of thing. I can handle it."

"You shouldn't have to handle it, El. Not now. The man has no heart – I told you that years ago."

"I don't want to argue." Ellie had cut him off. "I have to go."

She'd hung up before he could insist she come home, back to London, to the doctors and specialists that Clive had researched. He'd slammed the phone down, determined that she have her own way. There were no phone calls after that. 

Clive took a deep breath. He'd known she was getting worse. He knew it as soon as Eleanor's letters had become shorter, as soon as he'd seen the changes in her beautiful calligraphy and had read between the lines of her newsy words.

She'd written nothing about herself lately, no Long Island gossip, no bits and pieces of other women's lives that struck her as particularly funny or ridiculous, no mentions of trips to New York, new treatments, or cinema dates with her son. In fact, all she'd written about had been her son, Tony. Stories about his imagination, or how good he was at baseball and football. How happy he was when they snuggled on the couch to watch a movie together and talk about all the nuts and bolts of the cinema. And how much Anthony didn't understand his son – his passions or his interests – and was trying to make him into a little carbon copy of himself.

"Sir? Should I send the driver away?"

Dragged from his dark thoughts, Clive stood, shoving the card into his pocket. "No. Have my valet pack a bag, Wilson. I'll need at least a week's worth, suits as well as more casual clothes. And call Penelope at Heathrow. Get me on the Concorde. I don't care what you have to do."

"Ah – very well, sir." Wilson changed gears. "I'll have them call through to America for car service. Will you need a hotel?"

Clive was already closing his files and putting his papers in order, his mind flying far ahead of his body across the ocean to his sister's side. "Book me a car and driver for two weeks. I'll figure out everything else once I get there."

He hurried up the stairs. Sylvia was sure to be in her dressing room, a cup of tea on the table and the morning paper in her hands. "My dear, I'm afraid I won't be home for dinner." He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wise, as usual, seeing right through him. "It's about time. I've hoped you'd go, sooner rather than too late." She grasped his hand. "I wish I could go, too. You know that."

"I do. You hold down the fort. I'll call when I get there."

She stood, slowly and painfully as were all of her movements these days, and leaned against his chest, arms tight around him. "Be brave, Clive. Be what she needs – what her son needs. Whatever that might be."

Tears in his eyes and lump in his throat, Clive leaned his head on top of hers. "I will. I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Daniel hovered near the window, hiding within the light of the setting sun. It was Oma who had drawn him here – to the bed of this woman, this mother. One frail woman, praying for hope, for a husband's changed mind across the ocean, and one dying mother, desperate for help – not for herself, but for her eight-year-old son. The boy was sitting by his mother's side, holding her hand. Holding on for dear life – hoping to tether her here, to keep her from taking that last journey away from him forever. 

Daniel remembered a trip to New York, an installation in the museum, the snap of the chain and the thud of the stone. He had been the same age as this boy. But Daniel had no warning that his world was about to change, no long weeks and months of sickness, no dimming spark of life and love behind his parents' eyes. The losses couldn't be compared, weighed up side by side. Each one was unique. But he could remember those days after the accident and the emptiness that took over. The numb feeling in his limbs, in his mind. How the world had turned from a huge, noisy, colorful playground into a grey and lifeless space, devoid of anything that could interest him. Tony would have his father, but, based on what Daniel had seen so far and his fleeting dip into the boy's timeline, his father would be more of a curse than a blessing.

Once Oma had shared the women's wishes, Daniel had sped along Tony DiNozzo's future. He'd watched the tiny decisions, the everyday-seeming actions that had sent this boy's life careening out of control. The adults who had ignored his needs, who had abandoned him to loneliness. The father who had rejected his grief and demanded perfection. The family who had turned their backs. Small rejections that had built up into a future of abandonment and betrayal, where Tony survived by denying that he had any personal needs and piling up masks over his skin to protect his starving soul. It was a spider-web of loss, connecting him to other broken men and women with pasts as difficult as his own. Tony pulled those other broken souls to him - after all, if everyone wore a mask, no one was going to make the effort to look closely. 

Daniel didn't know how to untangle the tragedies of each person in Tony's future – or even if he could. It was right to try, he knew. And it was right to start here, with a scared, lonely child whose loss would darken every aspect of his world.

"He's coming," Daniel murmured into the soundless beyond. Oma did not answer, but he felt her spirit swirl around him, lighter, more relaxed than she had been. Daniel waited another moment to see if she would change her mind and appear to the lady in the bed, but Oma remained hidden. There was time, he told himself. There was still time for Oma to decide. To decide whether or not to help Eleanor Paddington DiNozzo release her burden.

It was time to act. Oma had brought Daniel here – Daniel, specifically – because she knew he would not be able to resist.

He stepped into the hospital room, clipboard in hand. "Mrs. DiNozzo?"

Eleanor DiNozzo opened her eyes, one hand still resting on her son's tousled head. "Please," she whispered, "he's just fallen asleep."

"No, I'm not!" Tony's head jerked up from the bed. He rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes with the heels of his hands. Bright green eyes looked over Daniel carefully. "You're new."

"I am," Daniel answered. Dressed in blue scrubs, stethoscope over one shoulder, he should have become another faceless medical worker among the hundreds of others who had assisted Mrs. DiNozzo. "You're very observant."

"He is," Eleanor replied with a smile. "What can I do for you Doctor …?"

Daniel moved to examine the IV bags suspended from the pole by her head, checking over the automated instruments that regulated her medication. He touched one finger to the identification bracelet on her slim wrist. All the things a doctor would do before discussing anything with a patient. 

"Doctor Jackson." He returned her smile, his own name innocuous enough for him to use. "How are you feeling today?"

The woman squeezed her son's hand. "My throat's a little dry, sweetie. Can you ask the nurse for some nice cold lemonade? You know how much I like lemonade."

Tony's eyes narrowed. The child was obviously caught between his knowledge that his mother was trying to get him out of the way for this discussion and his need to help, to get her something – anything – that she asked for.

Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat. This was a child grown up far beyond his years. Someone who considered every angle of a simple request before he ran off to obey. Tony had a sharp mind. And a breaking heart.

"Go ahead," Daniel urged, gentleness and professionalism in perfect balance. "I promise to tell you anything important after I've talked to your mom."

Mother and son turned startled gazes his direction.

"You will?" Tony asked, amazed.

"You'll – what?" Eleanor stuttered.

"I've always believed that the truth is kinder than a lie, Mrs. DiNozzo. And I think Tony can handle it. That he deserves it." Daniel nodded firmly at the child. "He appears to be your primary caregiver. He should know how to help."

"See, mom? I told you." 

"My little grown-up," Eleanor sighed. "Okay. Go get me that lemonade."

Tony stood and brushed one hand through his hair, letting it fall into place after his impromptu nap. He shifted towards the door and then turned back to lean in and kiss his mother's cheek. "Don't go anywhere," he whispered against her skin.

"Promise," she answered.

The look Tony gave Daniel on the way out of the room was clearly a demand that Daniel make good on his mother's promise. Daniel nodded, solemn, holding the boy's gaze.

"You've got a great protector, Mrs. DiNozzo." Daniel moved to stand beside the bed. Eleanor DiNozzo was a beautiful woman, but the lines of strain and the translucent quality of her skin told the story of her illness. Her pain. Daniel laid a hand on her arm, beside the IV port. He could take some of her physical pain away, as Oma had done for him when Daniel was dying in a similar bed 20 floors beneath Colorado Springs. But the regrets, the fears for her son, for his future – that soul-deep pain would need more than a touch. Daniel knew that. He didn't want to leave her with that pain. With those burdens.

Her breathing quieted, became deeper, calmer. Her eyes lost some of the eerie brightness of a woman trying to hide her pain. Her light eyebrows lifted, and she fumbled for Daniel's hand. "Have you come to take me?" she whispered.

Daniel smiled. She understood – understood, somehow, that Daniel was not a doctor or a nurse. That he was someone who didn't belong in this reality, who had stepped into her hospital room from between shafts of sunlight.

"No. That role is for someone else to fill." He sent a tendril of energy in Oma's direction where she still waited within the brilliance of the sunset. "I'm here to talk about your son."

Relief shook through the fragile woman and Daniel held on tight, shoring up the delicate strands that connected Eleanor to the physical world. They wouldn't last long, he knew. Just long enough.

"Thank you." Her voice was steadier, her hand gripping his strong. "He needs help. His father –" she frowned, "he doesn't understand. He doesn't … see Tony, somehow. All he sees is someone to mold and shape into his own image." Her expression crumpled, tears flowing in single trails down into her hair. "When he notices him at all."

"I know," Daniel answered. "You don't have to explain. Anthony is a difficult man. Your loss will be hard for him, provoking emotions that he isn't comfortable with. Emotions like loss and dread and sorrow – emotions he will mask and control. Seeing them shine from little Tony's face will be too much a reminder of the emptiness of his own soul. So, he'll shut Tony away."

"Yes." Eleanor swallowed and let her eyes fall closed. "If only – "

Daniel wiped away the tears with his thumb and reached within to ease her spirit. "Clive is coming."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"Your brother. He's coming. He will be here in a few hours," Daniel assured her with a sharp nod. "Tony can go back to England with him, if that's what you want. For a little while," he suggested. "At least, that's what you and Clive and Anthony can agree on. Just a little while until … until everyone finds his balance in a world without you." Daniel held her cold hand with both of his. "You're going to leave quite a hole, Eleanor. Your life has been bright, a shining light more powerful than the sun in all the lives that touch yours."

He saw the disbelief bloom behind her eyes. "Oh, yes. It's hard to see how our loss will affect those around us. All those connections broken, those seemingly unimportant every-day words and gestures gone. We don't realize how many lives we touch, how lives are changed, how friends – family – acquaintances – rely on our presence. Just that." Daniel let a bitter smile quirk up one side of his lips. "Just our presence. Alive. Warm. An arm-length away. Or a short journey down the hall. People look for us, reach out, think about calling or visiting long after we're gone." Daniel had learned that as a child – and had been forced to learn it all over again from the other direction after he'd ascended. "Don't ever believe your absence won't bring pain. Longing. Sorrow. That the life-journeys of Tony, of Anthony and Clive and so many others won't be changed – utterly and completely changed – by your death."

Eleanor huffed a laugh. "That's both a little comforting and a lot upsetting." Her free hand toyed with the edge of the blanket. "I don't want Tony to forget me, I don't want to fade away in his memory into some kind of ghost, but I don't want him to suffer."

Daniel nodded. "I can't promise that Tony's grief will be easy. The only thing I can do is offer him – and offer your brother – a chance. A chance to keep your memory alive and warm and comforting by strengthening their connection to each other." Daniel blinked, lifting his eyes to the red-golden sun. He was still learning, still coming to grips with his own death, with the grief and guilt of his friends. Oma had drawn him from the SGC with promises that he could continue his journey – that Daniel could take steps toward balancing the mistakes of his life with good works done for others – by moving on. He'd been confused, anxious, watching Sam's tears, listening to Teal'c's meditations, and hovering over Jack's empty nights staring up at the stars. 

"He'll stay there? With Clive and Sylvia? He'll be happy?"

The mother's earnest questions drew Daniel's gaze back from the beyond. "I can't promise that he'll stay. That his future will be filled with the love and support and happiness that you wish for him. But we can do this much for him – we can open the door. Build on the foundation of love that you've begun for him."

Eleanor looked away. "I haven't done so well."

"He's healthy. He's strong. He cares about others," Daniel insisted, drawing her gaze back to him. "His heart is open to love and learning, to joy. Tony understands that he is not the center of the universe – he notices others, watches them, he can feel their pain and sympathize with their sorrow. He's kind. Funny. He dreams of helping others. Mothers pray for all those things in their sons. Beyond success, beyond marriage and children. They want their sons to be good men."

The sick woman's eyes filled with tears.

"Yes," Daniel repeated, his sincerity flowing from his fingertips through their connection straight to her soul. "Tony is and will be a good man."

He waited, quiet and still and comforting while she breathed, slow and steady, to recover her equilibrium. A change in the energy of the hospital alerted him that Clive Paddington had arrived, that he was on his way to his sister's side.

Eleanor felt his spirit begin to withdraw. "Will I see you again?"

Daniel's smile was gentle. "The universe is so big, and we are so small. I hope so." Daniel felt the smile drop from his lips and a fierce intensity that he remembered from his earth-bound days rise up within him. "But, whatever happens, wherever you go from here," he slid his hands away and stepped back, "someone will stay behind. With Tony. Watching. He won't be alone – that much I can promise."

She stared as he dissolved into ribbons of streaming energy, her eyes following his form for as long as she could, her face losing its pinched, aching creases and shining with joy. "Oh. So beautiful. Thank you," she whispered.

Daniel lingered beyond the edge of her senses. Tony stood in the doorway, a paper cup clutched in both hands and a worried look on his face. Behind him, Clive Paddington had a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Mama? Who are you talking to?"

"The angel," Eleanor answered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicide attempt. Not graphic.

Chapter Three

Daniel dressed himself in flesh, in the black suit of his memory of Dr. Jordan's funeral. Eyes closed, he lingered for a moment at the threshold of grief. Another loss. Another wreath of mistakes to cloud the people he cared about the most. Sarah. Steven. Osiris. He breathed, expanding his chest until this form could hold no more and then let it out. 

"The deepest words of the wise man teach us the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows  
or the sound of the water when it is flowing."*

Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets and dropped his chin to his chest. "Thank you, Oma."

A slight rustle of leaves beside him revealed another shimmering presence. Daniel smiled. "I'm glad you came, Eleanor."

The woman's unburdened soul didn't respond, but Daniel knew she was watching. Watching the graveyard, hovering near her tombstone. Watching her son.

Tony had grown. His long-legged stride moved him through the newly mown grass, around other graves, careful not to step on anyone's memories. To a casual observer, he had some of the same mannerisms as Daniel – hands deep in the pockets of her brand-new Ohio State jacket, his shoulders hunched. In other ways, the two were very different. Tony's eyes scanned the distance, noticing the smallest details, taking mental photographs of his surroundings. Daniel had never been that observant, his mind constantly distracting him with his studies, his theories. Tony walked like the athlete he had become – strong and sure-footed. Confident. Daniel had been none of the above. Not at eighteen. Not until a hard-nosed military friend insisted on preparing Daniel to survive.

The young man stood at the foot of his mother's grave, frowning, for long moments. In the distance, a lawn mower droned. Birds chirped in nearby trees. A brief sound of music came from a white tent in the distance, dark-garbed men and women gathered all around.

Daniel nearly missed Tony's first words.

"Hi, mum. Sorry it's been so long."

Ten years. Today was the tenth anniversary of Eleanor Paddington DiNozzo's death. Tony's voice revealed the accent he'd picked up living with his aunt and uncle in London. London, with a touch of Long Island at the edges. Daniel smiled. He'd had a similarly strange accent when he'd lived with his foster families. English. Egyptian. Danish. It had marked him as different, but Tony wore his 'differentness' proudly, he didn't use it to distance himself from others.

The eighteen-year-old sighed and sat down on the warm grass, making himself comfortable. "I should be able to visit more frequently, now. I've decided to do university here, in the States. Ohio State." His smile was blinding. "Scholarship, if you can believe it. I'll be playing football. Real football." He laughed, throwing his head back. "Not what Uncle Clive calls football."

"I hope –" Tony hesitated. "I hope that makes you happy. Sylvia says – she's always saying that me being happy would make you happy. I hope that's true. Dad – well, it doesn't really work for dad."

Daniel nodded. Anthony DiNozzo had done one right thing in his life – he'd allowed Tony to live with Clive and Sylvia Paddington after his mother's death. He wouldn't allow the adoption the Paddington's had so dearly wanted, but he had never demanded Tony return. No, Anthony had moved on with his life – marrying twice in the past ten years, each wife younger, richer, and more dismissive of Tony's existence. Tony's desire to come back for college had sparked interest in the elder DiNozzo until he'd realized that Tony's major would have nothing to do with business or finance. He'd washed his hands of his son at that point, turning his back, and draining the trust fund Eleanor had set up before her death.

Thankfully, Clive provided more than Tony would ever need. Money, yes, but more importantly, he and Sylvia had provided love, acceptance, comfort, understanding, discipline. It hadn't stopped Tony from hoping, however. Hoping that his father would reach out and accept him.

"Uncle Clive would love me to come into the business with him. But, honestly, mum, I'm not that interested. It feels, I don't know, cold, I guess. Uncle Clive isn't cold, I don't mean that." Tony leaned back, supporting himself on his spread hands while his face lifted to the sun. "But, I do better with people than with paper. Learned that a long time ago." He snorted a laugh. "All those report cards in primary school where the teacher ticked the box, 'talks to his neighbors,' or 'can't keep his hands to himself.'"

Very different, Daniel thought with a smile. While Daniel had always had his head in a book, sitting by himself during recess to write and sketch in a journal, Tony had been the king of the playground. Chasing and running and swinging from the jungle gym. Daniel liked to think his interference had helped with that.

"I'd like to do something to help people," Tony continued. "Protect people. Keep kids safe. What do you think, mum? Clive and Sylvia are okay with it."

He sat that way for a few minutes as if waiting patiently for Eleanor's answer. The flickering soul beside Daniel gleamed, her pride stirring a breath of wind to blow through her son's hair. 

Tony closed his eyes. Daniel didn't know what memories the summer day brought to him, what feelings his mother's caress lifted to the surface, but he knew that Tony was going to be all right. He was happy. Comfortable with himself. No one would be filled with joy visiting their dead mother's grave, but Tony's happiness wasn't spread out across his skin, worn like a cloak or a mask – it had grown deep, a well of contentment in his soul. It was beautiful.

"I've got to go. It's a long drive to Columbus." Tony sat up and brushed the grass from his hands. "I brought you something." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a smooth, rounded glass. He shook it and Daniel saw that snow fell within the globe over a tiny town, old-fashioned buildings lining one main street. "I found it in a gift shop and thought of you." Long fingers caressed the token. "I bought two – one for each of us. It was our favorite, after all."

Tony stood and placed the snow globe at the foot of Eleanor's headstone. Eyes clouded, he bent his head once more.

"Thanks, mum. For everything. For laughter. For movies. For music and riding and all those times you didn't freak out when I was bad." He lifted his gaze to the distance. "I have a feeling it's going to be a Wonderful Life."

Tony walked off, nodding once to Daniel as he passed by. Daniel blinked back tears. This child – this young man – his future might still contain loss, hardship, hurt, but now in balance with a joyful childhood and good memories. And the firm certainty that he was loved.

Daniel cleared his throat and dissolved into another flickering light among the green summer leaves. "One more stop to make," he reminded the Others.

The desert wind whipped up around Gibbs, tearing furrows in his skin and hands. He pressed his face against his sleeve, protecting his red-rimmed eyes. Hernandez was due along this dirt path any time now, but the windstorm had come out of nowhere, making his carefully situated sniper's nest useless. If this kept up, he'd have to pack away his rifle before the sand and grit compromised it. He couldn't see, couldn't aim, couldn't breathe. Coughing – choking – he held the rifle to his chest and curled his body around it, turning onto his back to wait out the ravaging winds.

He cracked open his eyes. Above him, the sky was bright blue. He blinked, still feeling the wind at his back, hearing its screams and cries as it blew through the scrub and twisted trees of the Mexican desert. It sounded like the howling of his own soul. He frowned, eyes narrowed. The view before him was peaceful, calm, the desert silent, waiting. It was as if his nest stood at the cusp of whatever damned weather system was barreling through. Before him, sun and warmth – behind him, a turbulent maelstrom.

A man's figure blotted out the sun, his dusky robes almost a match to Gibbs' desert camo. Gibbs was defenseless, lying on his back like a turtle, squinting up into the sun, his weapon lying across his body.

The robed figure reached down a hand. Gibbs stared, the anger and grief and rage welling up, with no outlet in sight. No. He had to do it. He'd planned it all – Franks had given him the intel, given him the push – Hernandez was here, now, on his way to another drug cartel meeting. Alone. Vulnerable. Like – just like –

Gibbs' mind shied away from voicing the names. His wife. His girl. Dead. Dead and gone. Gone forever. The grief stormed his soul like the howling winds. Gibbs screamed, head back, mouth open wide, roaring his anguish into the sky. He lodged the barrel of the rifle beneath his chin and fumbled for the trigger. Now. It had to be now. Too late, too late –

The weapon disappeared from his hands.

"No. Your journey is not over."

Gibbs stilled, his eyes open wide, gulping air between tight lips.

The man in the robes crouched next to him, reaching up to toss back his hood. Brown hair, a little too long, blue, piercing eyes behind round glasses.

"Who – who –"

"Jethro Gibbs. Walk with me."

He intended to refuse, to throw himself at the man who had ruined his chance for vengeance. For closure. He found himself walking at the strange man's side, slipping and sliding on dunes too steep for the packed dirt of the Mexican landscape. The man handed him a full canteen and Gibbs drank, spat out sand, drank again, and poured the rest over his head before handing it back.

"Feel better?"

Gibbs nodded, his eyes on the horizon. The rage was gone, the hot, surging need to kill, to destroy Hernandez with his own hands. To follow the bullet's path and watch it explode his skull. Watch the red blood and white bone in his scope until it pulled a thick curtain across Gibbs' pain. 

The sorrow was still there. The guilt. The emptiness. But the anger was muffled, in the background, finally giving Gibbs a chance to think.

"Pedro Hernandez's death would not heal your wounds, Gibbs. Somewhere within you, you know that. You've always known."

He nodded again. Gibbs had dealt death from a distance for years. He'd taken out the targets assigned to him. Bad men. Bad women. People who threatened American lives. He'd eliminated those threats, but, always, every single time, another one rose to step in. There was never an end to bad people. Never an end to his targets, to the orders from above. Name after name, shot after shot. If he'd killed Hernandez, what next? His boss? His boss's boss? The head of his cartel? And then the next one and the one after that? When would it end?

The two trudged up a steep dune, Gibbs following in the strange man's footsteps. The man steadied him at the top, taking Gibbs' arm. Below them stood a small group of tents, men, women, and children in robes like his talking, laughing, fetching water from a well, cooking over low open fires. 

The man spoke, his words laced with all the pain and loss and emptiness in Gibbs' soul. "I looked into the eyes of the man who killed my wife. Who stole her away and kept her in unholy captivity for years. He was helpless, dying, and I taunted him as he died."

Gibbs looked at the man's profile, the set of his jaw. He heard the truth. Believed it.

"The next day, my wife was still dead. And it was still my fault. My fault for leaving her alone, helpless, as an enemy I didn't know came and took her."

Gibbs' throat closed, tears springing to his dry eyes. Yes. His girls were gone, and it was his fault. Always his fault. Always another tour, another duty, signing up to leave them, to chase after what made Gibbs' feel whole. As if they weren't enough.

"Using your skills to help others. Chasing your dreams. Following your duty."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He hadn't spoken, but the man beside him seemed to have heard.

"Shannon would never have tied you to her side, kept you from following your conscience." Blue eyes blazed into Gibbs' soul. "Just like my Sha're would never have blamed me, Shannon would not blame you. She was strong. Independent. Living her own life, the best way she knew how. Just like my Sha're."

The man was whispering, but the words flew like blades to lodge in Gibbs' soul. They cut through his defenses, opened up the steel vaults where he'd swept his notions of right and wrong, the moral code he and Shannon had shaped, his conscience. Gibbs felt the tears on his cheeks, tears he'd denied himself until now. And he watched matching ones flow from the stranger's eyes.

"Sha're left me a message before she died. It was a message of love. Of forgiveness. Forgiveness not only for me, but for those who hurt her. And she gave me a challenge. Told me to go on, to use my skills to protect others." The man's hand tightened on Gibbs' arm. "If Shannon had a chance to leave you a message, what do you think it would be?"

In an instant, Gibbs was back at a train station in Stillwater, Pennsylvania. A beautiful red-head looked up from her book and met his eye, rose, and walked towards him. 

"Shannon." It came out as a croak from his aching throat. "Shan."

She laid one hand on his cheek. "I love you. But don't die for me, don't sacrifice everything you've lived for because of your pain. If you do, you won't be the man I fell in love with. The one I want to stay with forever." She shook her head. "I want to meet you again someday, Jethro. At the end of your journey. I'll be there – we'll be there. But only if you're still you. If you go on this way, I'm afraid I won't recognize you."

He closed his eyes as she pressed her cheek against his. He could smell her hair, her perfume, feel the softness of her skin. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

Her smile was still blinding. "Follow who you are. Step back into life. This isn't good-bye, Jethro. Just I love you and I'll see you soon. Make sure you live a life your daughter can be proud of."

Gibbs was on his knees in the sand, the strange man holding him up as he wept.

The tent village was gone when he stood, the heavy desert turned back to scraggly brush and dirt. Gibbs licked his lips, wishing for another drink from that canteen. The man beside him handed it to him, full again, somehow.

"How?" It was all he could choke out.

The stranger seemed to understand. Gibbs wasn't asking how he'd brought Shannon to him. How he'd appeared to stop Gibbs. How he knew exactly what Gibbs was feeling. 

"Day by day, minute by minute." The man's eyes were as sorrowful as his own. "There's no cure for the grief, but, believe me," the man's intensity took Gibbs' breath away, "please believe me. You have to release this burden. Day by day. Little by little. Believe, just for a few seconds, that it'll be okay. And then a few seconds longer." The man's lips crept up into a faint smile. "Believe it or not, someday you'll be able to go an entire hour without the grief crippling you."

"Until then," the man stepped back and gestured, "work. Work hard to protect others from going through what you have. What we have. It won't balance out exactly, but it will help you face each day without them."

Gibbs looked up and found they stood beside the battered truck he'd been using. The sky was clear, the heat steady against the back of his neck. 

Some trick of the light dazzled the man's figure, blurring the edges. His voice seemed to echo from within Gibbs' mind and heart.

"A wise man once told me that, sometimes, some moments, you can forget. You will never be able to forgive yourself but walking forward into life is really the only choice that honors their memories."

"Who are you?" Gibbs breathed into the empty desert.

A light breeze ruffled his hair. "Someone who's walked this path. Someone who will walk beside you for as long as you need me."

Gibbs settled behind the steering wheel. Turned the key. He reached beneath his camo, to the inner pocket of his shirt and pulled out a plastic-covered photo. He'd tucked it away there days ago, unable to look at it. Unwilling to look into their smiles, their eyes. Unworthy of saying their names even to himself. He traced Kelly's braids with one finger and then slid it across Shannon's lips. "Kelly. Shannon." He swallowed. "Love you."

He set the picture on the dashboard, tucked an edge into the cracked leather. His angels. It would be hard work, to make them proud. But, from now on, Rule Number One would be, "What would Kelly and Shannon say about it?"

Gibbs put the truck into gear and drove north. From time to time, he glanced at the photo. At the empty seat next to him. He didn't know what fever-dream had come to him in the desert, but he had a feeling that seat wasn't as empty as it seemed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set near the beginning of Bete Noire.

Chapter Four

"I know it's crazy." Abby spread her hands, shaking her head in denial. "But ever since I had those nightmares about Autopsy, I can't make myself push the button!"

Kate smiled. "It's okay, Abby. It's your bete noire. Just like Gibbs and technology, or Tony and –"

"Tony and what?" Tony strolled into the bull pen, smoothing down his tie. "Abs! Today is our lucky day when we get a visit from you."

The lab tech seemed nervous, fidgeting, one hand on the plastic evidence bin she'd set on Tony's desk. "What's your bete noire, Tony?"

"This again?" Tony frowned. "Right now, it's having no info for Gibbs when he comes back from his coffee run. What's this?" He peered into the bin and moved his hand towards the evidence inside.

"Don't!" Abby grabbed his wrist. "Ducky called. He said the evidence is contaminated. Some kind of infectious germ or biohazard. He needs this all back, but," she stared into Tony's eyes, worriedly, "you know about my nightmares."

"Infectious germs? This is from the terrorist, isn't it? Gibbs shot the guy." Was he sick? Had he infected himself with whatever terrorist bio-bug he'd intended to use on innocent Americans? Tony slid behind his desk and reached for the phone. "Kate – check the cameras. Something isn't right here."

For years, ever since his mother died, Tony had hunches. He'd always been observant, cataloguing people's movements, his surroundings, noting personality tics and all the little ways people tried to mask their emotions. But the hunches were different. Every once in a while, the hairs would stand up on the back of his neck. Or he'd feel the need to turn back on a road trip, check in with a friend he hadn't heard from in a while. The hunches had kept him from trusting Danny in Baltimore. Had him trusting Gibbs, trusting the man when he'd offered him a job out of the blue. Had kept Tony from trusting the woman suffering from amnesia that Kate had befriended in time to save lives at the German bomb company. He'd convinced Gibbs to transfer Blackadder before her personal grudges could get someone hurt. 

Those hunches were scratching at the back of his mind, adrenaline rushing through his system. He was already dialing the director when Kate replied.

"Camera's down in Autopsy."

"Lockdown. Right now," Tony barked. Phone pressed to his ear, he pointed at Abby. "Stay here. You know the protocol. Every agent to their team lead, every civilian ushered to Conference Room A, under guard. Kate?"

She nodded, speaking quickly into her phone. "Senior Agent DiNozzo orders Lockdown. Possible hostage situation in Autopsy. Code Orange. This is not a drill." She looked up to meet his eyes, all business. "Electronic locks engaged, team leads notified. Civilians are being taken to the conference room. Balboa's team is on the guard schedule."

Tony nodded. His Blackberry was ringing, dammit. He knew who it would be. He let it ring, laying on his desk as the director picked up. "Director Morrow, possible hostage situation in Autopsy. I've ordered a Lockdown." He listened, getting his orders. Qassam, the dead terrorist in Autopsy, had been Hamas. And agents from Israel's Mossad were training at the Naval Yard. The evidence clicked into place in Tony's mind.

"I'm already calling Director David. But, don't wait, Tony. I trust you."

Morrow was smart – he wouldn't be too specific, looking over Tony's shoulder. He trusted Tony as Gibbs' second in command to get it right first and report to him when NCIS – and everyone inside – was safe.

"Gibbs," Tony answered his still-ringing Blackberry. "Where are you?"

"Trying to get in the damned door. What the hell is going on?"

Okay, Gibbs was outside the Lockdown. He was no help here. Tony explained. Told him to head to the location of the Mossad training event. If the enemy inside NCIS was a Mossad operative, after something the Hamas terrorist had, something that NCIS now had in evidence, maybe they could call the guy off.

"Get going, Tony," Gibbs told him. "Ducky will be stalling for time. Neutralize the threat. You can do it."

He could. 

Teams in place, back-up just out of sight in the stairwell and at the outer door of Autopsy, Tony stood at the locked glass doors, his expression locked into pleasant unconcern. The blinking red warning light would be enough to hide the dark purpose in his eyes from anyone peering out.

"Hey, Ducky, I brought Abby's evidence. You wanna let me in? I've got a lunch date with the oh-so-curvy Agent Pacci and I don't want to make her wait, if you know what I mean." He winked, his tongue hanging out, a big, crass gesture designed to make others roll their eyes.

"Just leave it outside, Tony. The beautiful Miss Pacci will be infuriated if you're late."

"Ducky, I'd love to. But chain of evidence. Gibbs would skin me alive if I broke it." He juggled the evidence bin awkwardly, sneaking a peek at his wristwatch. "Hurry up."

As soon as the doors slid open, Tony barreled through, tossing the box so that its contents exploded out into the room, drawing every eye. His gun, held out of sight beneath the box, had barked twice before the intruder could respond. Head shot. Neck shot. Dead.

"You okay, Ducky?" Tony slid the dead man's weapon away from his limp hand with one foot, making sure. His eyes never left the guy. He wasn't taking any chances.

"Yes, yes, we're fine." The doctor's voice was a little high pitched, a little breathy, but Gerald was already ushering him to a chair, his own hands shaking.

"Just one? Gerald, was there just this one?" Tony demanded.

"Yeah, Tony, we only saw this one."

Tony raised his wrist and spoke into the microphone clipped to his sleeve. "Intruder down, I repeat, intruder down. Code Yellow. Sweep the building, room by room. I want to make sure this guy didn't have any friends stashed away."

His ear bud chirped. "Affirmative. Sweep proceeding. Will advise."

Tony let his shoulders relax. Toed the body with one foot. "The Israelis insist he was Hamas, retrieving Qassad's bio-bug. I'm surprised I got the drop on him so easily. Those guys are trained to hell and back."

Ducky cleared his throat. "It was very odd, Anthony. Just as you rushed him, there was a strange flicker of light from my light box." He pointed to the flat light boxes hung on the wall to Tony's right where Ducky read x-rays. "Since power was off, I have no idea where it came from. Some power surge, perhaps? It distracted the man just when you needed it."

Tony felt a familiar presence. Warmth rushed through him. He lowered his head and smiled.

"Thanks, mum."


End file.
